


longing

by anichariz



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, F/M, Unrequited Love, hello yes i come bearing ANGST, this fic is about prussia being very sad hungary is dating someone else, to be clear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 15:33:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15888897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anichariz/pseuds/anichariz
Summary: The moment he sees them together, he knows she’ll never be his.





	longing

The moment he sees them together, he knows she’ll never be his.

He is scruffy - white-blond hair always a mess, face always smudged with dirt. He doesn’t bother with politeness:  _du_ serves as an acceptable way to refer to anyone,  _sie_ is merely an annoyance.

_He_ is noble - violet eyes and well-fitted finery highlighting his aristocratic nature. His language is polished and precise: he says exactly what he means, and nothing less.

He knows she why she finds him attractive. There’s a part of him that sees it too: the combination of dark hair and violet eyes, the way his lips quirk when he’s lost in thought. The way he muffles his laugh behind a slender palm.

But he was born for war. He was made for it, forged in its hellish flames. One of the lessons he’s taken from that holds true even now: never let the enemy see you as weak. Even if the both of you know you’ve lost, you keep the shit-eating grin plastered on your face and move forward. No matter how much it  _hurts_.

So he sticks to his talents: as the albino, the ‘devil’s spawn’, the one that grown-ups all ignored until he was too big to, he makes life difficult.

He sneaks in and shuffles the stacks of sheet music: putting an Italian opera halfway through a French lullaby. The Spanish folk song loses its page three. The books move from the left of the piano to the right, and other nonsensical places within the spacious music room.

He turns every third book on the shelf backwards or upside down. He replaces books with English editions, German editions, Hungarian ones. He moves bookmarks, leaves notes dryly commentating within the pages. He mixes up the careful size order, puts Victor Hugo’s miserably large tomes in the middle of delicate shelves of poetry.

He relabels spices, mixes the fine silver in with the ordinary silverware. He moves the normal dishes into the china cabinet, and lays the china out for a formal dinner, but wrong. He makes off with frying pans, though that rarely works out to his favor.

He moves furniture three inches to the left. Then six inches to the right.

It’s not as though anyone doesn’t know it’s him causing this. There’s an unspoken rule in the air: no one admits it’s him. In return, the pranks are merely annoying and not overtly destructive. As much as he itches to shred every last piece of music in the house, he knows better than to shatter the fragile peace.

He finds a strange ally in an abrasive Swiss man. He looks at  _him_ the same way he looks at  _her_ : like a gift to this earth, but not one meant for him.

Their friendship is odd, with sharp, strange edges. They both pretend not to notice how he flinches at the sound of Hungarian accents. They ignore how the blonde's eyes follow tall, dark-haired men with an air of wistful longing.

They don’t need to say it. They both know.

They missed their chance a long time ago.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm only a little sorry.
> 
> I refer to du vs. sie, which is a German pronoun formality thing. As far as I understand, the idea is that du is more "hey you" and less polite to superiors/strangers.


End file.
